A Long Road of Solitude
by tii-chan17
Summary: Castiel is far from anyone's version of normal, especially his own. He's never questioned why he prefers to sit and think rather than do all the other inane activities other people occupy themselves with. That is, until he meets a strange man under strange circumstances who provokes strange reactions out of him. Castiel can't help but wonder what all of it's going to turn him into.


**A/N: Hello, everybo-day! I'm new to the SPN fanfic-dom, but this isn't my first fic. I've been wanting to write a Destiel ever since I first heard about those two, and I guess this is what it came to!  
**

**Sorry for the insane length, but I feel it worked a lot better as a oneshot. Also writing epic oneshots is fun. **

**Okay, so, this is a Reverse!verse AU type-thing, and Cas and Dean's personalites have been changed slightly as such. Cas is a lot less...oblivious and more susceptible to emotions, though not overly so, don't worry! Dean, on the other hand, is a lot less badass and more emotionally-overwhelmed, seeing as he's new to the whole thing. I hope they don't seem too OOC to you, but if they do, please don't flame. It's really late on a school night, I'm not on my best form.**

**So, I hope you enjoy this, and please review! My horrid Monday tomorrow shall be made.**

* * *

A Long Road of Solitude

Castiel sat quietly on his sofa, staring at his entwined hands. He'd been doing that a lot lately – meaning he'd been doing nothing at all, of course. This wasn't exactly a new development; Castiel had always been solitary, ever since elementary school, where he'd been the silent child in the corner of the classroom who inwardly rejoiced when the teacher said, "...or I suppose you could work alone, if you wish."

In fact, Castiel had been so quiet and introverted during the first ten or so years of his life that his social worker had been convinced of the fact that he was either mentally deficient or psychologically scarred. When his school results disproved the first, Castiel had been subjected to a nauseating myriad of sympathetic, subtle glances meant to say, w_e know what you're going through,_ and, _you can always talk to us_.

Eventually, when he couldn't bear it any longer, Castiel _had_ talked to them. His eleven year-old self had stated in no unclear terms that he was not a case to be sympathised over, and he stayed quiet because he wanted to. It was not selective mutism. It was not mutism. It was not inner demons. It was a simple disdain for mankind. People were loud, noisy, dirty and cruel. Castiel, true to his name, preferred to stay a divine distance from all of it.

And so he had done, until the glorious day of his eighteenth birthday, when he was finally permitted to pack his bags and move out. He rented a small apartment and furnished it with the bare necessities, plus a few books. Castiel quite liked books; they were only cruel in the ironic sense of the word. And yet, seeing the ease with which the authors crafted their masterpieces sickened him slightly. Why was it necessary to vent your sorrows or joys to the whole world through a piece of acclaimed fiction? Who gave them the right to be able to craft beauty out of twenty-six letters and a strange amalgamation of lines and dots? Castiel didn't think he'd ever made anything close to beautiful in his entire life.

He supposed authors were the only humans he truly envied.

Apart from that, Castiel was, he supposed, satisfied with his lot in life. He had a part-time job in a library, though his high school grades had been enough to get him into any college with a full ride. Castiel had no wish to get a degree; he just simply didn't see the point, when almost all jobs were closed to him because of his unwillingness to communicate. Thankfully, though, the manager of the library had known his parents, and after a long, _long_ spiel about their full lives and regretful passing, she had offered him the job. Castiel had accepted, realising he would need to get money from somewhere.

Generally, not including the mostly one-sided chats with the manager, Castiel had to talk to someone in the library about once a week. The conversations were usually limited to, "I'm sorry, do you happen to know where the section on architecture is?" and a point in one direction or another. Castiel could accept that.

But on Tuesdays and Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays when he didn't work, Castiel rarely ventured out of his apartment, unless it was to buy groceries. Generally, he did what he was doing now, i.e. nothing.

Castiel was fine with doing nothing. Nothing was constant, it didn't change, and he didn't get bored. Or he didn't usually get bored, anyhow. Today, or this week, rather, seemed to be an exception. Tuesday had been all right – normal – but on Friday, or yesterday, Castiel had felt the itch to..._do _something. He wrote the urge off as an effect of hunger, made himself a sandwich and sat back down.

Saturday, or today, was worse. Castiel's mind just didn't seem to be satisfied by sitting on the sofa and contemplating his idle hands, as it usually was. No, for some reason, it wanted to have them make something, or do something, or...

Castiel didn't know. This was unfamiliar territory for him. He had tried opening a book, but after turning twenty pages and realising he didn't even know what he was reading, he'd abandoned that. He'd attempted cooking, but had ended up staring out of the window for so long that the rice boiled over and scalded his hand. And now he was at a loss for what else his brain could possibly want from him, so he was sitting on the sofa, contemplating his hands and wondering what kind of hideous brain tumour he had.

After five minutes, he concluded it probably wasn't a tumour after all, but something like apathy. It couldn't actually be apathy, naturally, because he cared (or was annoyed) that he could not do nothing. Lethargy? No, he had no trouble _getting_ himself to do things, he just couldn't actually do them. Depression? But what could he be depressed about?

Then Castiel had an idea. Possibly, his brain wanted to experience something different, anything. The human mind needed variety every so often in order to stop it rotting away. Castiel endeavoured to go on a walk, something he hadn't ever done without an express purpose in mind, he didn't think.

As he stood up purposefully to fetch his coat, Castiel saw a large, dark shape fall past his window. He blinked, then jumped slightly when he heard the crash of the object landing among the trash cans below. Curiosity overcame him, as it was wont to do to every human at some point, and Castiel walked swiftly out of his door, pulling on his anorak.

Walking out of the lobby, Castiel saw it was misting lightly, not an uncommon occurrence. The sky was pitch-black, clouds suffocating the moon and stopping any light from getting through, though somehow long, disproportionate shadows were still cast. The street lights cast an eerie orange glow over everything.

Strolling around the corner into the alley directly below his living room window, Castiel scanned the area for the large object that had fallen. There was evidence of its landing: many trash cans were overturned and spilling their contents onto the ground. Castiel wrinkled his nose at the smell.

Seeing a dark form crumpled next to the wall of the apartment block, Castiel stepped closer to see what it was. It was very dark indeed, between two tall buildings, and Castiel was completely nonplussed until the thing moved slightly and mumbled, "Oh, so that's what seeing stars means..."

Startled, Castiel jumped back, nearly slipping on a damp chip packet behind him. It was a _person_. A person had hurtled past his window. His window on the sixth floor. And they were still conscious.

Before he could overcome his astonishment, the person spotted him. "Hey," they said, "how long have you been there?"

Castiel blinked. He debated just turning and walking away, but realised he would certainly have to call an ambulance for the man. "Not very long," he replied, his voice gruff from underuse. "How are you conscious?" he added, after a pause.

"Oh, I'm tough," the man said airily, struggling to sit up. Alarmed into forgetting his aversion to physical contact, Castiel pushed him back down determinedly.

"No, you mustn't move," he said with decisiveness. "I need to call an ambulance."

The man grabbed Castiel's hand, which had been reaching for his cell phone. "No, no ambulances! I'm really fine!"

Castiel snatched his hand away as if burned. "No, you just fell from at least seven storeys. You need to go for a check-up, if not surgery," he said, still not quite believing that he was managing to hold a conversation, let alone with a man who should be a broken pile of bones.

The man sighed. "Whatever. But no ambulances. Do you have a car?"

Castiel hesitated. "Yes, but I don't drive often."

"Doesn't matter. You can drive me there if you're so worried," the man told him flippantly. He made another attempt to get up. Again, Castiel pushed him down.

"No," he said, "I won't have you walking after falling from heaven knows how high. Wait here." He hurried away to his car, leaving the man slumped against the alley wall.

While turning the key in the ignition, Castiel was suddenly struck by how...right he felt. He wasn't exasperated or uncomfortable, his usual states when interacting with other people; he felt...excited and...curious, still. And a bit annoyed, but that was due to the man's sheer stubbornness in insisting that he needn't go to the hospital.

_Foolish imbecile_, Castiel thought, wondering why he didn't seem to mean the insult as harshly as he normally did.

What was different about this man? Waves of poetic, romantic nonsense about soul mates and two pieces of a puzzle flooded into his head, but he shook them away irritably. He didn't even know if he _liked_ the stranger yet. He didn't know anything about him, except that he seemed to be made out of heavy-duty steel.

Any further thoughts on the strange man were temporarily shoved from Castiel's mind as he braked in front of the alleyway. Leaving the car running, Castiel strode back to where the man lay, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the pavement. "Finally," he greeted Castiel. "I was beginning to think you'd run off to phone an ambulance after all."

Castiel cursed himself for not thinking of that.

"Fortunately for you, not. Do you think you can walk, or do I need to carry you?" Castiel hoped fervently that he could indeed walk. He was not possessing of incredible upper body strength, and from what he could see, the man was quite hefty.

Thankfully, the answer was a scornful, "Of course I can walk! I've already told you I don't need a hospital," followed by the figure standing upright and promptly lurching forwards into Castiel's chest, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Castiel's head cracked against the asphalt, and he was stunned briefly. Then the situation sank in, and he struggled to extricate himself from underneath the man's quite considerable weight.

"Heh," the man laughed sheepishly. "Okay, I think I might have sprained my ankle after all. Sorry."

Castiel was too busy glowering at his silhouette to say, "I told you so." He got up, brushed off his trousers and rubbed his head before holding out a reluctant hand to the man, who was still on the ground. Castiel generally avoided physical contact at all costs, but this was a strange day. A strange day full of strange occurrences. This was what came of humouring your brain's irrational longing for change.

The man took his hand and heaved himself upright, leaning heavily on Castiel, who stumbled slightly under his weight. Slowly, they made their way to the Vauxhall, where Castiel opened the passenger door and manoeuvred the (as he could now see) dirty-blond stranger into the seat, making sure not to jolt his right leg too much.

"I assume you can buckle yourself in?" he asked, already slamming the door shut and walking to the driver's side.

The man could, in fact, do his own seatbelt, and moments later, they were driving down the well-lit road on the way to the local hospital.

Castiel could see from the corner of his eye that his passenger was staring at him, but refused to let himself shift uncomfortably, though he wished he would stop.

"What's your name?" The sudden breaking of the silence startled Castiel slightly.

"Castiel," he replied after a short pause.

"Angel of Thursday?" came the incredulous reply.

Castiel was surprised. "You know that?"

"Uh...very religious family," the man said, just a beat too quickly.

Castiel frowned. "Yes, I suppose my parents must have been, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, their naming of their son after a cabalistic angel suggests –"

"No, not that. What do you mean, 'must have been'? And why do you have to suppose?"

Castiel frowned at the man's tenacity. "That's really none of your business." Before the man could apologise, annoying Castiel further, he added, "But I suppose I don't really mind telling you. My parents died in an accident when I was very young. I don't remember them."

There was a brief silence. "Oh," the man said eloquently. "Do you miss them?"

"Why on earth would I –?"

"Oh, all right, never mind. I was just trying to be sensitive. It doesn't often work out for me, no."

"I wasn't going to ask you whether being sensitive worked out for you or not."

"...you're a bit of a strange one, you know that?" the man said ironically.

Castiel made no attempt to reply. They drove in silence until the strange man broke it yet again. "Aren't you going to ask me my name?"

Castiel sighed inwardly. "I suppose."

"Go on, then," came the playful encouragement.

Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What's your name?" he asked flatly.

"I'm Dean," said Dean. "This is where you say 'nice to meet you', I believe."

"What if it isn't?" Castiel said, surprising himself. He didn't, as a general rule, go looking for confrontation.

"You're supposed to say it anyway."

Castiel said nothing.

"Are you going to talk to me at all?" Dean asked, sounding mildly frustrated. "You're the one who demanded I go to hospital. I don't even need it, it's just a sprained ankle!"

"You fell from seven storeys," Castiel told him. "You're going to the hospital. If not for the plaster casts, at least for the anti-depressants."

There was a stunned silence. Then: "You think I jumped?" Dean sounded shocked.

"I see no other explanation for you falling from so high, unless you were pushed. And no one else came out to check what was going on, so there can't have been that much of a struggle," Castiel reasoned.

"I didn't fall from your apartment block. And I didn't jump."

Castiel blinked. "Did you fall _off_ my apartment block?"

"_No._"

"Then from where did you fall?" Castiel half-hated himself for genuinely wanting to know.

Dean did not reply.

Castiel didn't pursue the matter for the sake of blissful silence and said nothing else for the rest of the journey.

It took just over a quarter of an hour to reach the hospital through light traffic, and Castiel parked right outside the door to A&E. Getting out of the car, he helped Dean up and half-supported, half-dragged him to the reception desk.

"How can I help you?" said the tired-looking receptionist.

"This man has fallen –"

"Down the stairs," Dean interrupted with a charming smile. Castiel realised for the first time that his teeth were very, very white. "It's probably just a sprained ankle, but Cas here wanted to make sure."

Castiel frowned at the nickname. Was that a farce too, or was Dean just trying to irritate him?

They were told to wait in the sitting area until a doctor came to see them, which took around half an hour. Then Castiel sat awhile longer while Dean got his diagnosis, contemplating whether he should try one of the hideous magazines on the table. He decided he'd had quite enough novel experiences for the day and stared at his hands instead.

When Dean came back, not very long after, he told Castiel about his diagnosis without prompt. "The doctor says it is just a sprained ankle, but he bound it and said I should walk on crutches for a few days." He held up his walking aides.

Castiel just nodded and led the way to the car in silence. Driving down the main road, he asked, "Where am I to drop you off?"

Dean, who had been examining his new crutches, jumped. "Uh...I...here is fine...?"

Cas looked at him in confusion. "Here?"

Dean smiled unconvincingly. "Yeah, I just live a few blocks away, I can walk from here. Better get used to these crutches, anyway."

Castiel didn't buy it and told Dean as much. "If you live here, what were you doing on top of my apartment block?" he reasoned.

"For the last time, I didn't fall from your apartment block!" Dean yelled, evidently frustrated.

"Well, you certainly didn't fall from the top of the stairs, either," Castiel said meaningfully, "so where did you fall from? There is nothing above my apartment block that I know of."

"Except heaven," Dean pointed out.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Naturally. Now tell me, where am I to drop you off? I don't have time for this," he said, before he realised that, yes, he really did have time for it. Too much time.

Dean sighed, a defeated slump evident in his shoulders. "I don't really have a home right now," he admitted. "I kind of got...kicked out."

Cas nodded. "I expected as much," he said, though he hadn't. Dean looked far too well-kept to be homeless. "In that case, should I take you to the nearest shelter?"

Dean blinked. "Um. Yeah, sure. Okay." His reply didn't sound as confident as his speech had been before.

Castiel mentally shrugged it off and turned around at the next opportunity.

When they reached Radford's Homeless Shelter, Castiel stopped the car and nodded at Dean. He didn't feel it necessary to say anything. Dean looked at him blankly, then swallowed, nodded back, and got out of the car. After he had finished arranging his crutches, he leaned down to speak through the open passenger window.

"It was nice meeting you," he said. Castiel knew he was lying. "Thanks for helping me, I guess."

"You're welcome," Castiel said with no sincerity.

Dean nodded again and turned awkwardly. He made his way towards the shelter.

Castiel was about to pull out of his parking spot when he saw Dean's shoulders slump completely. He looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And well he should, Castiel realised. Dean had been abandoned by his family and had nowhere to go. He was hardly going to be singing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus.

But, Castiel thought, Dean hadn't looked under-the-weather until this point. It hadn't been a farce, Castiel could read people well enough to know that. Dean had been genuinely comfortable in his company.

It was then that Castiel realised he was sending another person, a person who had just as much right to a good life as anyone else, to a lonely place where no one would talk to him, or laugh with him, or take care of him. Castiel was sending Dean off into the life to which his own parents had unwittingly sent him.

And though Castiel was not by any means compassionate, he found he could not do that to someone who smiled quite so brightly as Dean.

"Wait," he called out of the window.

Dean stopped and turned around. He was smiling, but Castiel could see it was a thin mask about to crumble.

"You..." Castiel trailed off, wondering whether this was really a good idea. "You could stay with me for a bit, I suppose. If you really don't have anywhere else to go."

Dean's wavering smile was replaced with a look of utter shock, and for a moment Castiel thought he had crossed some inexplicable social line. Then Dean's face split into an enormous grin, and Castiel relaxed without even realising it.

"Really?" Dean asked incredulously.

Castiel nodded slowly. "I...don't think you're suited to a lonely life." He wondered when he had got to the point where he'd put someone else's needs over his own; Castiel very much liked his personal space, and now he was offering to share it with someone he barely knew purely because they would be lonely.

Dean looked at him for a long while, until Castiel was figuratively writhing in discomfort. Then, he started making his way back to the car. "No, I don't suppose I am," he mused as he got back into the passenger seat. "Thank you, Cas." He smiled again.

If Castiel was offended by the nickname, he didn't say anything. He realised it was going to stick around as long as Dean did.

* * *

"Hey, this place is nice," Dean said politely as he hobbled through the door into Castiel's apartment.

Castiel looked around at the drab wallpaper, dull carpet and bare furnishings. "Don't feel the need to lie to save my feelings," he said simply.

Dean looked as if he were about to object, but shut his mouth.

"Are you hungry?" Castiel asked, purely because he was.

Dean nodded, looking excited, and Castiel raised an eyebrow inwardly at his strange enthusiasm.

"Is pasta acceptable?" he enquired, taking out a pot and putting the kettle on.

"Yeah, it's great! Thanks, Cas."

Again with this 'Cas'. "Why do you call me that?" Castiel asked with no inflection.

"Hm?" Dean looked up from the toes of his shoes. "Oh, uh, I don't really know. Does it offend you?"

"Not as such."

"...great?" Dean was starting to sound uncomfortable, Castiel noted. This was normal, when people talked to him. They usually stopped trying after a few more sentences.

Castiel almost felt disappointed.

"So, hey, how long have you lived here?" Dean surprised him by asking.

Castiel blinked, and took the kettle off the element. He poured the water in, turned on the hob and dumped two handfuls of pasta into the pot, followed by a pinch of salt. He turned to face Dean, who was looking at him expectantly.

"Why do you want to know?" he said frankly.

Dean looked startled. "I was curious." He shrugged. "I kind of want to know more about you."

Castiel was flummoxed. "Why?" he asked, with a tone of disbelief in his voice.

"Because you're interesting." Dean smiled at him. "And you helped me. Still are helping me. So how long have you lived here?" he repeated.

Castiel did a mental calculation. "Around ten years," he said.

Dean did a double-take. "Ten years? Wow, that's a long time for a hu– person to stay in one place. Has it always looked like..." Dean gestured towards the table with the solitary chair, "this?"

"Yes." Castiel gave the pasta a stir.

"Oh." It was evident that Dean did not understand Castiel in the slightest. Castiel hadn't expected him to. "And before then, you were in care?"

"Yes."

"Was that hard?"

"I'm not sure. I never experienced anything else," Castiel said simply.

Dean looked at him with what Castiel realised, with a nauseating jolt of recognition, was pity. "That's rough, dude."

Castiel glowered and turned back to the pasta once more.

Dean seemed to realise that he'd offended Castiel in some way and was quiet until Castiel served the pasta.

"Thanks," he said with a soft smile as he was handed his bowl.

Castiel did not acknowledge the sentiment. "Do you want sauce?"

"Plain is fine," Dean assured him.

"That's fortunate, because I don't have any."

Castiel couldn't for the life of him figure out why Dean burst out laughing.

* * *

After eating their assigned bowls of plain pasta – Dean seeming to enjoy his more than Castiel thought was quite usual – Castiel conducted a brief tour of his apartment.

"As you can see, the kitchen and living area are connected," he said, already walking through the door into the small corridor. "The end door is my bedroom," he continued, "and the ones on the left are the bathroom and spare room respectively. You'll be sleeping in the spare room tonight, but I'm afraid there isn't a bed in there; you'll have to be on a spare mattress."

Dean nodded. "That's great!" he said, not a hint of sarcasm or false cheer in his voice. Castiel regarded him with suspicion. Surely a single person abandoned by his family could not be so happy-go-lucky.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Castiel said, "Now, you as good as fell into a trash can tonight, so I expect you to take a shower."

Dean chuckled. "I was planning on it, don't worry," he joked.

Castiel did not smile. "What are you waiting for, then?" was his reply.

Dean seemed startled, but didn't comment on Castiel's brusque manner. He headed for the bathroom with a smile directed at the other man, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Castiel went to his bedroom and stripped out of his suit and trench coat, donning jogging bottoms and a T-shirt instead. He was just about to get into bed when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and was slightly shocked to see that Dean was shirtless, and would probably have had his arms crossed over his chest uncomfortably if he hadn't been leaning on the crutches. He had a pleasing physique, Castiel noticed before he could drag his eyes back to Dean's now slightly pink face.

"Uh, sorry, Cas, I just realised I don't know how to work the shower. Could you –?" Castiel walked past him to the bathroom before he could finish his sentence. "Thanks," Dean added, following along behind him.

"It's quite simple." Castiel reached into the shower stall. "This dial controls the heat. You turn it anticlockwise to turn on the water, and then depending on how far you turn it, it changes the temperature." He turned the dial all the way to the right. "This is the hottest setting," he said, before turning it to three o'clock, "and this is lukewarm. I wouldn't recommend anything lower, unless you like ice baths."

Dean smiled at him brightly. "Thanks, Cas. I feel dumb now, though. You're right, it is really simple. My...uh, old house was kind of old-fashioned, so..."

Castiel nodded and made to leave to room. At the door, he remembered something. "Oh, yes, just so you know, shampoo is –" he stopped abruptly.

"Yes?" Dean looked over his shoulder, smile still on his face.

Castiel said nothing, uncomprehending eyes fixed firmly on Dean's shoulder blades. "What...?" he managed, before Dean spun around in alarm, dropping his crutches, and pressed his back against the tiled wall.

"Don't look!" the man half-shouted, fear and alarm evident in his eyes.

Castiel was still speechless. His mouth was lax, and it took him several tries before he could get his jaw to work correctly again. "What on earth...? Did that happen when you fell?"

Dean shook his head, looking pained. "No...before."

Castiel frowned, still not quite understanding. "May I see again?" he asked slowly.

Dean pressed his back harder against the wall. "I – um..."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Castiel assured him as best he could. He desperately wanted to see Dean's back again, to check that what he'd thought he'd seen was actually there.

Hesitantly, Dean stepped away from the wall and limped towards Castiel. When there was about a metre of space between them, he took a shallow, shuddering breath and turned around. Castiel's eyes widened again.

There were two symmetrical, jagged cuts on Dean's back – slightly curved, diagonal lines, travelling from the bottom of the shoulder blade to just shy of mid-chest. They were horrible; dark red and painful looking, the tissue raised and shiny. Castiel dared not touch them, as they looked almost fresh. He instead traced a line directly next to the right wound, quickly bringing his hand back to his side when Dean shuddered violently.

"What happened?" Castiel asked quietly.

His back still turned, Dean tried to tell him. "It...my family..." he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

"Your family did this to you?" Castiel asked, mildly horrified. He had never known the feeling of having family, but he'd always assumed it to be one of companionship and mutual understanding. Not...this.

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah. My brothers...objected to some of my more rebellious adventures," he said cryptically.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked, voice still not far above a murmur.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Castiel nodded.

"I forgot they were there!" Dean told him desperately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shock you or frighten you or anything. Please don't kick me out."

Castiel frowned. "Why on earth would I throw you out?"

Dean turned around, surprise mingling with the shame and embarrassment on his face. "Well, I'm obviously not from a very nice background, and –"

"Your family's abuse –" Dean flinched at the word, "– is no fault of yours. You are in no danger of being thrown onto the street," he said honestly, still reeling slightly from the shock of Dean's injuries.

"Thank you," Dean whispered fervently. "You're the kindest person I've ever met. Thank you for everything."

Castiel nodded and walked out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. As he walked back to his bedroom, his only thought was that Dean's experience of humanity must be appalling if he, Castiel, was _kind_ by his standards.

Lying down in bed and drawing the covers to his chin, Castiel shut his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep. This method usually worked in a couple of minutes, but after half an hour, Castiel's mind was still racing with images of Dean's scars, and the look of terror on his face when he realised Castiel had seen them.

Castiel took a shaky breath and gave up on the idea of sleep. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed listening for any noise Dean might be making. He was met with silence.

Very, very quietly, Castiel got out of bed and sat at his desk, switching on his ancient laptop. He had bought it second-hand on a whim from a car-boot sale, and to be completely honest, he was amazed it was still running.

Wincing at the loud whirring noises it was making, Castiel glanced at the door to his bedroom, half-expecting Dean to walk in at any minute, wondering what the racket was. He didn't even know why he was so nervous. He was perfectly entitled to his curiosity, and to ensure his safety.

Finally getting the search engine up and running, Castiel realised he wasn't quite sure where to start with a background check on Dean. Castiel had no last name (not to mention he wasn't even one hundred percent sure the first name he had been given was correct), and no state where his family might live. He typed in key words: Dean, domestic abuse and permanent scars. Needless to say, he didn't find much that was relevant.

Deciding to take a new angle, he found a background check service and looked at the required fields. No use; they specified a last name, city and state. Frowning in frustration, Castiel sat back in his chair. Dean had said his family was old-fashioned, which, though admittedly was not much help on its own, did imply that they held traditional values very highly. Dean's clothes were casual, but well-made and good quality, suggesting wealth. Castiel decided desperate times called for desperate measures, and started to trawl through various state newspapers to find any possible mentions of a traditional, rich family with multiple sons.

He had only checked Washington, Montana and North Dakota (none of which proved very enlightening) when there was a timid knock at the door. Castiel jumped and slammed his laptop lid down, nearly trapping his fingers in the process. Forcing himself to calm down and not look like a fugitive, Castiel opened the door.

"Yes?" he said coldly.

Dean looked awkward and apologetic. "I'm really sorry for disturbing you. I wasn't going to, but I heard noises coming from your room, so I figured you were still awake."

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "And?" he prompted.

"I can't sleep."

He was met with a blank look. "What am I supposed to do about that?" Castiel asked, slightly more harshly than he had meant to.

Dean averted his eyes, cheeks colouring. "Uh, well, I was wondering whether you had any...sleeping pills? Or, um, painkillers."

Castiel blinked.

"For my back," Dean explained. "Ever since I remembered they were they, they've been burning and I can't ignore it."

Castiel frowned. "When you first got these injuries, did you seek medical aid?"

Dean shook his head. "I...didn't have time," he said, the words sounding fake and unwieldy.

"So you didn't get any treatment for them at all?" Castiel asked, astounded that Dean could be so naïve, when the man didn't look much younger than Castiel himself.

Dean shook his head, unsure as to what Castiel was getting at. "Was I supposed to?"

Castiel, for the first time in his existence, felt the urge to punch something. "Of course," he said, his voiced raised more than usual. "They may have become infected now – it's life-threatening in the worst cases," he snapped.

Dean flinched at Castiel's acerbic tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I thought my body could handle it."

Castiel shot him a withering look. "Well, I may as well try my best to salvage it now, though I know nothing of first aid. Come." He stalked off to the bathroom.

Opening the cabinet and bringing out his first aid kit, Castiel motioned for Dean, who was leaning the crutches against the wall, to take his shirt off and perch on the closed toilet seat, facing the shower. Castiel stood behind him and soaked a washcloth in a mixture of warm water and soap. He wrung it out slightly and placed it over the cut on Dean's left shoulder. Dean flinched and whimpered, then became embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said, "It just hurts a bit."

Castiel said nothing, cleaning the wound methodically before moving onto the next one. After he had finished that too, he looked at the spray-bottle of antiseptic contemplatively, before mentally shrugging and spraying a good amount on Dean's back. Dean jumped slightly, before the sting kicked in and he cried out, scrambling off the toilet. His ankle gave way underneath him and he caught himself on the opposite wall, staring at Castiel with accusing eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, eyes watering from the pain.

Castiel shrugged. "It's antiseptic. It will hopefully stop the wounds from becoming infected."

"Why does it hurt so much?" Dean asked through gritted teeth.

"It has alcohol in it," Castiel said slowly, wondering if he should have had Dean checked for concussion at the hospital, the man's permission or not.

"Why?" Dean cried.

Castiel frowned. "I don't know. Now come and sit down again, I still need to bandage the cuts."

Dean regarded him with suspicion. "Will that hurt too?" he asked guardedly.

"Only if you move," Castiel told him bluntly, becoming impatient and sitting Dean down on the toilet forcefully, wiping his hand on his trousers at the uncomfortable feeling Dean's hot skin left on his palm.

Thankfully, Dean did not move, and Castiel could dress the wounds without hindrance. When he was done, Castiel gave Dean couple of Ibuprofen, told him to go to bed and rest, then walked out to his own bedroom. He opened his laptop and immediately shut it down.

If Dean were a danger to him, Castiel thought as he lay down on the mattress, he would deal with it when he came to it.

* * *

The next morning, Sunday, Castiel opened his eyes to see the light in the hallway flickering on and off. Rubbing the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, he stepped out of bed and padded across the carpet barefoot to see what was amiss.

He opened the door and found Dean with his finger on the light switch, smiling up at the bulb as if it was a tiny sun.

"What –" Castiel's voice was husky from sleep and he cleared his throat before starting again. The noise startled Dean and he turned to look at his host. "What are you doing?" Castiel asked, still too tired to infuse the appropriate amount of annoyance into his tone.

"How does this thing work?" Dean asked eagerly, pointing first at the light switch and then at the bulb. "I've been trying to figure it out since I woke up, but I'm stymied."

Castiel looked at him uncomprehendingly. "You're asking me how the light works?"

"Yup." Dean didn't look like he was poking fun; in fact, he seemed genuinely curious.

Castiel was astounded. "Did you not learn it in school?" he barely dared to ask.

"School?" Dean looked confused for a second. Then his face cleared. "Oh, yes, school. Of course. Um...my brothers..."

"Were you home-schooled?" Castiel prompted, not in the mood for this right at that moment (though frankly, he doubted he'd ever be in the mood for it).

"Yes...?" Dean didn't sound sure.

"About what? I can't believe your brothers decided to just take electricity off the syllabus," Castiel told him, though from what he'd heard so far, Dean's brothers did not seem normal in any aspect of the word. Come to that, neither did Dean himself, though Castiel was hardly one to judge.

Dean's smile brightened. "Oh! Electricity! Is that it? Wow, I'd never have guessed." He looked genuinely impressed.

Castiel blinked, shook his head and clicked his tongue. "I'm going to make breakfast," he said, heading for the kitchen. "Do you like pancakes?"

"Um, I haven't tried them before," Dean admitted.

"Why am I not surprised?" Castiel mumbled under his breath. What had he been thinking, taking in a complete stranger for the night? Dean obviously had quite a lot more than a few screws loose. Castiel just hoped he didn't turn violent. He had no knowledge of the ways of the insane.

While he was making the pancakes, Dean hobbled into the kitchen in his clothes from the night before.

"Change," Castiel said without turning around.

"Sorry, what?" said Dean, bemused.

"I said change," Castiel repeated. "Those clothes are filthy. Put them in the washing machine and borrow something of mine. You'll find everything you need in the chest of drawers in my room."

"Um. Okay. Thanks, Cas." Castiel could practically feel the smile burning into the back of his neck. "You really are kind," Dean added, "though you go about it in a pretty funny way."

Castiel didn't answer.

Just as he had finished serving the pancakes, putting a small pile on two clean plates and placing them on the table, Dean came in. Castiel made the mistake of looking up, and the even worse mistake of not looking straight back down again.

Dean was slightly taller than Castiel, and a lot more filled-out. The T-shirt he had borrowed was so tight around the chest that Castiel could clearly see his pectorals, as well as a hint of abdominal muscles further down. As his gaze travelled lower still, Castiel noticed the shirt was just a breath too short, exposing a glimpse of tanned skin right above the waistband of the old jeans Dean had picked out, which stopped just above Dean's bare feet.

Castiel, realising his mouth was slightly dry, swallowed thickly and concentrated hard on setting down his plate of pancakes right in the centre of the place mat, his cheeks inexplicably warm.

"Wow, those smell really good!" Dean said, grinning.

Castiel didn't reply, not trusting his voice to keep his flustered state a secret. Why did Dean's appearance agitate him so much?

Castiel suddenly stiffened as he felt Dean's presence behind him, abruptly too close to be considered proper. Dean bent his head to the crook of Castiel's neck, inhaling gently, ruffling the hairs at Castiel's nape. Castiel's face grew hot and his fingers curled, his stomach twisting so much he thought he must be ill. Coming to his senses, Castiel span and pushed Dean away. The man was more solid than he'd expected, though unstable on his crutches, and Castiel also stumbled back a few steps, the small of his back digging into the table.

Dean regained his balance and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to startle you. It's just...you smell really good. Better than the pancakes."

Castiel regarded him with suspicion, even as his breath hitched in his throat. It suddenly hit him, embarrassingly late, that he was attracted to Dean. It was the first time he'd ever felt anything beyond mild approval of another human being. But Dean could be dangerous. He was evidently not normal, and even possibly sexually abusive. But Castiel was jumping to conclusions.

Deciding it was better to be paranoid than a rape victim, Castiel told Dean, with no room for argument in his tone, that if he wanted to assault Castiel in any way, he'd better get out now before he called the police.

Dean, to his credit, looked utterly horrified. "What? No!" he protested. "I'd never do..._that_ to anyone, let alone you!" Castiel frowned, wondering what was so different about himself. "I was seriously just thinking you smelled really good," Dean continued, desperation pouring out of his eyes. "Please don't think I'm...that. I'm not evil." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Castiel regarded him contemplatively and decided Dean was telling the truth. The distress in the man's eyes was no psychopath's crocodile tears. "I apologise," he said, his mouth unused to forming the words. "But there was no need to become so agitated. I was not accusing you of anything, merely taking a precaution."

Dean nodded, looking hard at the floor. "Yeah. Okay. But I just...never want you to – no, I mean, I'd hate for you to ever think I could do something like that. Let alone to you."

"What is it about me? Why am I so special?" Castiel asked, his toes curling against his will on the bare floorboards.

"What do you mean?" Dean looked confused. "How could you not be special? You...you took in a complete stranger! And I know I seem crazy – I'm not, though, please believe me – but you gave me a place to sleep and food to eat and treated my injuries anyway! You're so kind. I mean, you are kind of strange, but I guess that makes two of us. How could anyone ever do anything bad to you?"

Castiel was stunned. He had done all of the things Dean had said, but it hadn't registered as _kindness _(though, now he thought about it, Castiel wasn't sure what else it could be). Dean's complete innocence threw him off as well. He didn't seem to understand that terrible things could happen to good people, even though so much evil had happened to him.

Dean was completely different to other people, Castiel realised. It wasn't even just his strange personality, or his complete ignorance of the simplest things. No, Castiel thought: he had a different...aura. Castiel couldn't think of a word to describe it. It felt different to other humans': purer, more sincere. And Castiel realised he liked Dean, just a little bit. He just wasn't the same as all the rest.

Shaking his head to get rid of his strange thoughts, Castiel motioned that Dean should sit. "Eat," he said, "and then I'll take another look at your injuries, to see if they're doing any better."

"Where will you sit?" Dean asked as he sat in the single chair, placing his crutches on the floor.

"I can eat standing," Castiel told him.

Dean nodded and ate in silence, though a small smile graced his lips as he chewed the first mouthful of pancake. Castiel ate quickly, barely even tasting the food, before going to fetch the first aid kit and the box of Ibuprofen. When he came back, Dean had finished as well. Castiel left the plates on the table to clear up later and led Dean into the lounge.

Sitting on the couch, Castiel gestured for Dean to sit in front of him, to give him easiest access to the wounds. Bashfully, Dean stripped off the too-tight T-shirt (Castiel averted his eyes when he realised he wasn't breathing) and obeyed, taking care not to put too much weight on his bad ankle.

Castiel gingerly peeled off the dressing from the night before and smoothed his hands over Dean's shoulders without really giving his brain permission. Dean shivered, and Castiel bit his lip. It was ridiculous for his libido, after being non-existent for twenty-eight years, to suddenly make itself known so brashly.

Castiel noticed with relief that the wounds did not seem to have become any more inflamed overnight, and in fact looked slightly better. He cleaned them gently, Dean tensing at the initial sting of antiseptic, but his muscles relaxing after a while.

While applying the bandages, Castiel spoke up spontaneously. "You know, I've talked to you more in twelve hours than I've probably spoken in my whole life."

Dean looked at him curiously over his shoulder, and Castiel resisted the temptation to cross his arms protectively over his chest.

"Yeah, I figured you weren't a very chatty guy," Dean mused. "Why do you not like talking? Are you shy?"

Castiel shook his head, though Dean couldn't see. "Not as such," he said. "I just find the rest of humanity...deplorable."

Dean snorted in mirth. "Ha! Yeah, most of my siblings were like that too."

Castiel suddenly felt cold. "You...think I'm like your siblings?" he asked hesitantly. He felt ill at the idea that he could be compared to the monsters that had maltreated Dean so awfully.

Dean looked at him in confusion, then realised what had Castiel so concerned. "No, not in that way! It's just, they thought people were stupid and annoying as well. I did too, for a bit, but then..." Dean trailed off and did not finish his sentence.

Castiel silently finish dressing Dean's wounds and handed him the Ibuprofen. "Keep dosed up on these for a few days," he said. "It'll help with the pain a bit. But no more than 3200 milligrams a day. If you do take more than that, tell me immediately and I'll take you to the hospital."

Dean looked alarmed. "What'll they do to me?" he asked urgently.

Castiel didn't know for sure, but he had a general idea. "They can cause harm to your intestines," he told Dean. As an afterthought, he said, "You're not asthmatic, are you?" Dean shook his head, and Castiel nodded, relieved. "I'd better take a look at your ankle as well," he said to Dean, "in order to see whether it's healing alright." That and, for some unfamiliar reason, Castiel wanted to touch Dean for just a bit longer. It was a very strange urge for someone who generally disliked physical contact, but again: Dean felt different, though Castiel couldn't fathom how. He'd known the man for less than a day.

Getting off the sofa and motioning for Dean to take his place, Castiel knelt down in front of the other man, placing Dean's foot in his lap. He unwound the bandages slowly, taking care not to move the joint, and examined Dean's ankle. It was slightly swollen and had some bruising, but on the whole was not as bad as it could have been, seeing as Dean had fallen from –

Where _had_ he fallen from?

Castiel looked up at Dean, who must have read the question in his eyes, as he avoided Castiel's gaze carefully. Nevertheless, Castiel was determined to know.

"From where did you fall?" he asked simply.

Dean swallowed. "I can't tell you," he said quietly. "Please...don't ask anymore. I'm begging you, Cas."

Castiel glanced away, not able to look at Dean's unhappy expression any longer. "Very well," he said. "I will stop asking for now, but eventually I will want to know."

Dean merely nodded and descended into silence.

* * *

The two lived together as such for another few days, with Castiel preparing lunch for Dean to heat up on Monday, when he was at work – he remembered all too well the disaster of Dean's attempt at Sunday lunch.

They didn't talk a huge amount (for which Castiel was inherently grateful), but they were comfortable together. Castiel was surprised; he'd only ever been entirely content by himself, but though Dean was a novel presence in his daily routine, he wasn't at all unwelcome. This perplexed Castiel slightly.

Castiel helped Dean redress the wounds on his back and rebound his ankle every day, partly because he was certain Dean would not be able to do it himself, inept at the simplest things as he was, but also because he felt something similar to happiness when he did so. It soon became a fixed part of his daily grind.

It was while Castiel was rebinding Dean's ankle on the Tuesday after he had found the man that he noticed Dean was more sombre than usual. The man didn't often attempt inane chatter, but he usually enjoyed keeping up a light conversation, with today being the exception. Castiel decided not to comment upon it.

When he had finished, however, Dean drew his attention with a soft "Hey."

Castiel looked up, and saw Dean staring at him with a mixture of sadness and longing. Castiel wasn't sure if it was possibly for his heart to stop, but he thought it did.

"Hey," Dean repeated. "I guess when this," he rubbed his foot gently against Castiel's thigh, completely oblivious to the connotations of what he was doing, "and my back are healed, you'll want me to leave, right?"

Castiel frowned. He wasn't in fact completely sure of what he would want when Dean was fully healed, but answered anyway: "I suppose so. Why?"

Dean looked pained. "I just...please don't kick me out. I hate to ask: it's embarrassing and I've taken advantage of your kindness too much already, but _please_. I like it here. I like _you_. You're so much kinder to me than anyone's ever been before. I'll get a job, we can split the rent, anything, just _please_! I...don't want to be alone." His voice turned husky, and he turned his head away, trying to force down his tears, and looking mortified that he had to.

Looking at him, Castiel felt an ache in his heart that made it seem as if it was being wrenched apart. He realised Dean had already become his weakness, and that this was certainly not a good thing, but looking at the man, that impossibly flawless man, Castiel found he couldn't find the callousness to turn him out onto the streets again.

"Very well," he relinquished. Dean snapped his head up to look at him incredulously, guarded hope smouldering behind his eyes. "You may stay here for as long as you wish," Castiel continued. "I suppose I have been on my own for far too long as well."

Dean gaped at him, then suddenly dragged Castiel up by his T-shirt, enveloping him in an earnest hug. Castiel stiffened, completely unused to so much physical contact all at once. He didn't know what to do with his hands and was in an extremely uncomfortable position, half-sprawled across Dean's lap, one knee still on the ground while the other dug into Dean's thigh. Hot breath trickled down his spine, making him shiver slightly and the hairs on his neck stand at attention.

He should have wanted to push Dean away again, wanted to get as far away as possible. However, the warmth of Dean's hands through Castiel's T-shirt felt...right. Castiel was far from comfortable, but he was not repulsed.

"_Thank you_," Dean murmured into Castiel's neck, his lips grazing his jugular. Castiel trembled, his hands pressing against the couch to find some semblance of support. "Thank you so much," Dean repeated, still clinging to Castiel like a limpet. "I'll never be able to repay you."

Castiel shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat. Dean came to his senses and immediately drew back, looking worried. "Sorry!" he apologised, "I'm really sorry. I can't control – the _emotions_..."

Castiel extricated himself from Dean's arms, brushing off his apologies. "It is of no consequence," he said. "It merely alarmed me slightly."

Dean looked ashamed. "I screw everything up," he said self-deprecatingly. "Even when you're so generous to me, I just weird you out and make you think I'm a molester."

Castiel's brow furrowed in confusion. "I do not think you are a molester," he said. "Merely slightly too enamoured of physical contact, which is strange, seeing as your family..." Castiel trailed off, eyes drifting from Dean's eyes to his shoulders.

Dean squirmed. "You know, I let you think what you wanted initially, but I fell like I'm deceiving you now. My family didn't ritually abuse me; it was a one-off thing. It wasn't even really abuse, I...kind of deserved it."

Castiel looked up at him in astonishment. "You think you deserved it?" He could hardly believe the words were coming out of his mouth, even as his lips formed the syllables.

Dean nodded shamefully. "I did a really bad thing. Really, really bad. I don't regret it though. That's why they kicked me out. But yeah, I deserved it. I still deserve it."

Castiel looked at Dean, so pure, yet so tainted by his refusal to believe that he was good, and suddenly felt sick. He lurched to his feet and sprinted for the bathroom, ignoring Dean's concerned "Cas?" and slammed the door behind him. He collapsed on the floor and leaned over the toilet, breathing heavily. He coughed dryly, shoulders heaving and gut churning, but no bile came, and he stayed dizzy and nauseous. He hated it; why couldn't he just throw up and have it done with?

"Cas?" came Dean's worried voice from behind the door. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Castiel didn't know. But then he remembered Dean's admission: _"I deserved it." _He remembered how he had felt the sense of something perfect being stained and destroyed by evil, and he retched again. It was just _wrong_ for Dean to say such a thing. No one could deserve anything like the violence Dean had endured, and now the man was telling him he _deserved_ it?

Dean was the purest person he had ever seen, the only shadow on his soul caused by the terrible scars his only family had created. To have someone like that think they deserved any abuse made Castiel want to never face humanity again. Humanity corrupted everything that was clean.

"I'm coming in," Dean said, and Castiel realised too late that he hadn't locked the door. The other man opened the door and limped in; he'd left his crutches in the living room.

Gingerly lowering himself to sit cross-legged next to Castiel, who now had his forehead resting on the edge of the toilet seat, Dean raised a hand and pressed it to Castiel's cheek.

"You don't feel feverish," he said. "Do you think it was something in the pancakes? I'm fine."

Castiel shied away from his hand, and refused to notice the expression of hurt that passed over Dean's features. "I am not ill," he said simply.

Dean looked confused. "You're not? Then why...?"

"How can you say that you deserved something like that?" Castiel snapped suddenly, turning to look at Dean with eyes glinting like pieces of sodalite. Dean flinched, looking startled. "It must have been torture!" Castiel continued, still inexplicably furious. "There is nothing you could have done that would convince me you'd ever deserve anything like that."

"I killed a man." Dean's voice cut through Castiel's anger like a steel knife.

Castiel turned to look at him, face ashen and eyes still red from retching. "What?" he said, hoping he hadn't heard Dean correctly over the ringing in his ears.

Dean was staring hard at the floor. "I killed a man," he repeated. "I don't regret it; he was a murderer too. But murder is a sin, and sins must be punished. I disobeyed my family and I got disciplined. It's that simple."

"You killed someone." Castiel was searching Dean's face, trying to find some indication that there could be a murderer behind Dean's honest, open eyes.

Dean nodded and looked defeated. "I'll leave now."

Castiel blinked. His fingers twitched as if to grab onto Dean's T-shirt and keep him there, but he didn't follow through with the impulse. Dean got up and left, stumbling slightly on his bad ankle. Castiel stayed on the floor, staring into the toilet bowl listlessly.

It figured that the first person he found to be tolerable – the first person he'd _liked _– would be a killer.

God's little joke.

It wasn't until Castiel heard the door to his apartment close that he realised Dean was actually _leaving_. He wouldn't be in the corridor playing with the light switch when Castiel came out of the bathroom. He'd never smile at Castiel again. Castiel would never see him again at all. Why would that be such a cruel shock after only a few short days?

_But he killed a person_, Castiel's brain told him urgently. Yes, that was true. Dean had admitted it outright, and there was no reason for him to lie. But he had said the man had had it coming, that he had killed someone too, and Castiel believed him. It did not justify Dean's crime to any degree, but Castiel realised Dean, pure as he was, could never be truly evil. He was the victim of such, not the creator of it.

Suddenly determined, Castiel jumped upright, his sight blacking out as he stood too quickly. He ignored it and felt his way past the bathroom door. His vision cleared gradually and he raced out of the apartment after Dean, realising that he was still barefoot and in pyjamas but not caring enough to go back.

It was pouring outside, prophetic fallacy to a fault, and Castiel's feet sent splashes up to knee height when he got outside. His T-shirt was already becoming see-through, but Castiel ignored the strange looks he was getting and searched for a head of dark blond hair, the head of the one person he felt was worth being around.

Seeing nothing initially, Castiel chose a direction at random, feeling a tug at his heart, and raced down the street as fast as he could with his body unused to exercise. He shoved at people who got into his way, ignoring the angry shouts and insults hurled at him. Only Dean mattered, that inexplicable spark of untainted light that was slowly disappearing into nothingness.

Suddenly, Castiel spotted a flash of blond in his peripheral vision. He whirled around, searching, and his eyes alighted upon Dean, barefoot like him, with a soaked bandage on his right ankle, and also in just a T-shirt. But while Castiel was wild-eyed and more alive than he'd ever felt before, Dean was listless, dead-looking, his limp only adding to the vision of forlornness. Castiel felt the nausea again, but pushed through it, running forward and calling to Dean as loudly as he could. His voice fell upon numb ears, and Castiel sprinted even faster, shouting louder and barrelling into Dean as the man turned around. Castiel's momentum was too much for the both of them and they stumbled back, falling to the ground as people hurriedly crossed the street or yelled irritably at them.

Too out of breath to speak, Castiel scrambled upright and pulled Dean into a nearby alleyway by the front of his T-shirt, paying no heed to the man's cry of pain as he jarred his ankle.

In the nostalgic shadow of the backstreet, Castiel pressed Dean up against the wall as hard as he could, desperate and furious and overwhelmed.

"Tell me what happened," he said, his voice a snarl. "Tell me why you killed that man. Tell me why you deserved what happened to you. Tell me why you fell past my window. And tell me what happened to my _life_! You've ruined everything! I've been fine until now, 'til you came along. But then you came, and suddenly I'm not _me_, I'm some other person who talks and does random acts of kindness and likes other people and _feels_ for other people, even when they have nothing to do with him! What have you done to me?" Castiel shook him, teeth set and face hard in anger.

Dean looked at him, wide-eyed, and slowly brought his hands up to Castiel's. He gripped them gently, held on even when Castiel pressed him harder against the cold wall, and eventually Castiel allowed his grip to be loosened, allowed Dean to hold his hands gently and rub slow patterns into his palms.

"I'm sorry," Dean told him. "I guess I kind of knew this would happen as soon as I saw you that first night. You have an abnormal amount of...awareness. I can tell that even now."

"What are you talking about?" Castiel asked wearily. "Why can you not just stop talking in riddles and tell me frankly? Why do you insist upon hiding everything? Why do I, even when I know this, still trust you, when I've known you for a mere twelve hours?"

Dean smiled ruefully. "Like I said, you have a high awareness."

"An awareness of what?" Castiel's frustration increased, and he clenched his hands into fists, pressing them so hard into Dean's chest that it must have been painful.

Dean showed no reaction, and only sighed quietly. "You're...very responsive to other people's energies." Ignoring Castiel's look of disbelief, he continued. "You can subconsciously sense whether they are good or bad or neither. That's why you react to me. I'm..."

"Pure," Castiel finished for him, defeated.

Dean blinked. "Actually, I was going to say 'different'. I'm anything but pure."

Castiel was suddenly furious again. "Are you playing with me?!" he hissed. "You are the purest human I have ever met! It makes me physically ill when you say such things, but I don't know _why_."

Dean looked solemn. "Then I don't know either. I'm not pure, Cas, didn't you hear me? I killed someone!"

"You said he deserved it and I believe you," Castiel told him. "Just tell me what happened."

"I guess I'm going to have to, aren't I?" Dean chuckled mirthlessly. "I owe you that much."

Castiel just waited expectantly, not releasing Dean from his prison against the wall.

Dean took a deep breath, and began.

"Not very long ago – about five years, I think – I met a girl. Cassie."

Castiel abstractly wondered exactly how many tragedies had started with that very same line.

"She was...perfect. I was head over heels immediately. It was kind of pathetic, actually. I never found the courage to talk to her – apart from everything else, my family wouldn't have approved of her. Or anyone, really, but that's beside the point.

"The point is, I was infatuated from the start. I used to watch her from a distance. Not in a creepy way, mind, just keeping an eye. I used to drop in whenever I could, check she was okay. This went on for a few years, until she met this other guy. He was a bastard, he never deserved her. He treated her awfully, but for some reason she'd always go back to him. It kinda broke my heart," Dean's face twisted into an agonised mockery of a smile, and Castiel felt his heart twinge. He flattened his hands against the soaked fabric of Dean's (technically his own, but for Castiel it would always be Dean's) T-shirt to offer some remote semblance of comfort.

"Anyway," Dean recovered, "he used to treat her like crap. At first it was just verbal stuff, you know, insults, degrading remarks." Castiel knew all too well. "She fought back at first, but then...I dunno, she just sort of gave up.

"I was going to step in, then. I was gonna muster up my courage and step in and tell her about myself and tell her to leave that guy, that I'd treat her so much better, but then –" Dean's voice broke off, cracking painfully. He took a deep breath. "But then it was too late. He got seriously mad one night, started throwing stuff. Something hit her on the head, I think it was a vase. She was stunned; still conscious, but completely defenceless. Then he just took a knife and –" Dean didn't need to finish.

"I hunted him down afterwards. I guess you can figure out what happened."

Castiel was at a loss for what to say. He'd never been in a situation like this before – especially not in one which he actually cared about the person's feelings – and now he had no idea what to do. He merely let Dean grip his hands tightly, even though he was crushing his fingers to the point of pain, and dared not open his mouth.

Dean inhaled, the breath shuddering into his lungs. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I know I'm pathetic, I just..."

Castiel shook his head. "You are not pathetic in the slightest, Dean," he reassured the man, voice low and as gentle as he could make it.

Dean smiled at him, and this time it wasn't just a shadow. This was a washed-out version of the very first charming grin Castiel had seen on his face that Saturday night that seemed like so much longer ago.

"Y'know," Dean said, still staring into Castiel's eyes. "You remind me of her. A bit. You're kind like she was, even though you don't like to admit it. Heck, even your names sound similar." Dean chuckled slightly, and Castiel tried not to wince at the realisation that he was just a replacement for something Dean desperately wished to have. He tried to remove his hands from Dean's grasp, but the blond wasn't having any of it.

Giving up, Castiel said, "You still haven't answered my biggest question."

Dean blinked at him, before comprehension washed over his features. "Oh. Right."

Castiel nodded, and murmured, almost as if it was a prayer, "From where did you fall?"

Dean swallowed. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" he asked, trying to smile.

Castiel shook his head. "How could I?" he asked. "You refused to give me any clues in the slightest."

He felt rather than heard Dean's gentle chuckle. "But I did, Cas. I gave you the hugest amount of clues. How do you think I know exactly what happened to Cassie? What do you think is above your apartment block?"

Castiel shook his head silently, a suspicion seeping into his mind that he refused to acknowledge.

"You're thinking about it, I can tell," Dean whispered, pulling Castiel closer and closer, until they had a mere millimetre's space between them. Castiel felt hot breath fan over his lips and tried desperately to lower his heart rate, convinced that Dean could hear it.

Dean appeared to be steeling himself, eyes averted with a distant look within them. "I..." he started, before his voice trailed off. Breathing deeply, he leaned to put his mouth against Castiel's ear, causing the other to shy away reflexively, before Dean caught the back of his head and held him in place.

"I fell from Heaven," he breathed. "I am...I was an angel."

The truth laden upon every word nearly forced Castiel to his knees. He could feel it resonating through him. It didn't matter that he hadn't believed in God or Heaven or anything before; Dean as an angel just felt _right_.

Dean rested his head against the cold stone wall of the alleyway and continued his tale. "My brothers – the archangels – they didn't take too kindly to me not only falling in love with a human, but killing another person for her. So –" Dean winced. "So they ripped my wings off, feather by feather, and I fell. All the way down. We still retain a tiny part of our Grace after we land, so we aren't terribly hurt, but mine's drained away almost completely now. I'm human, apart from the fact that I can still feel you're special."

Castiel refused to blush, instead looking Dean straight in the eyes. "Did it hurt? To lose your wings?" he asked.

"Like you could never imagine," Dean said, looking distant.

They stood quietly for a minute, hands entwined, listening to the pouring of the rain.

"You didn't deserve it," Castiel said suddenly.

Dean looked at him curiously. "But I killed someone," he reminded him.

Castiel nodded. "I understand that. But I meant that you didn't deserve any of it. You didn't deserve a family, holy or not, who refused to accept who you were. You didn't deserve to only be able to watch Cassie from afar, and you didn't deserve to watch her die. And you certainly didn't deserve to be saddled with the guilt of giving her killer his just desserts, not to mention being punished for it."

Throughout his speech, astonishment was making itself clearer and clearer upon Dean's face. When he'd finished, Dean reached to cup Castiel's face in his hand, ignoring the slight flush that came to the other man's cheeks.

"Thank you," the blond said simply. "I can't see your aura now, and I doubt I ever will, but if I ever do get the chance, I know it'll be he most beautiful thing in this world."

Castiel blinked, unsure what to say, or whether to say anything at all. Dean was leaning forward, bringing their faces closer together, and only when they had a few centimetres separating their lips did Castiel realise what was happening.

Panicking, he stepped back, restraining Dean with a hand pushed against his face. Dean yelped as he was poked in the eye.

"Ow! What the –? Cas?!"

Castiel removed his hand and shoved it in his pocket. He shuffled nervously, twisting his other set of fingers in the fabric of his T-shirt. He looked at Dean, drenched and shivering against the wall, hand covering his injured eye.

"You don't want this," Castiel said, mortified to realise his voice was shaking slightly. "Please, Dean, you don't want it."

Dean looked slightly hurt. "What do you mean, Cas? Why wouldn't I –"

"I can't be Cassie," Castiel said. "I'm not who you think I am – I'm not kind, I dislike people, I'm probably some form of insane, I don't _do_ anything! I can't give you what you need. You're upset, it's understandable, but please realise this isn't what you want. If we..." Castiel flushed a deep red, unable to stop the flood of desire that bowled him over as he pictured Dean panting and needy, half-clothed... He wrenched his thoughts out of the gutter. "You'll wake up in the morning and hate yourself and me," he blustered. "And I'll hate myself too."

"Cas..." Dean was looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and distress. "How can you think that? Of yourself, no less than of me! How could you think I'd only want you because of Cassie?" He seemed genuinely upset. "You remind me of her, sure, but I don't think of her when I'm with you! I think of _you_, and how amazing you are and how disgusting it is that you can't see yourself for what you are, just because other people have always put you down. You're not insane, Cas, how can you think that?"

Castiel looked away. "I'm not like other people."

"And is that necessarily a bad thing? Maybe all the rest of them are insane! I know for a fact I'd rather spend an eternity with you than ten minutes with any of them. And I know the meaning of an eternity." There was a smouldering in Dean's eyes that hinted at his previous power, reminded Castiel that was he was looking at was not completely human. It sent a thrill down his spine.

Dean stepped forward, wary, as if he was approaching a rare animal that would be scared off at the slightest noise. "Please believe me, Cas. I knew it as soon as I saw you: you're not a replacement for Cassie. I couldn't get anywhere near her because of what I was. But you know everything, and you accept me anyway. I was half-expecting you to run away, or call the police on the insane guy that was harassing you, but you didn't."

"Why would I have done that?" Castiel asked, nonplussed.

"You see? It didn't even cross your mind. This was meant to happen, Castiel." Castiel shuddered at the sound of his full name falling from those lips. "Please trust me."

Castiel inhaled deeply through his nose and stepped forward, allowing Dean to catch his chin with his fingers and raise his face to look Dean in the eye.

As Dean's thumb lightly brushed over Castiel's lower lip, the brunet said, "I've never done...this before," his voice betraying the apprehension he felt.

Dean only smiled gently. "Neither have I," he reminded him. He brushed his lips over Castiel's briefly, rainwater making the touch slick and smooth.

Heart rate ridiculously elevated just by this simple contact, Castiel closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Dean's, trying to stop his fingers from shaking.

Dean chuckled breathlessly, sending puffs of hot air to mingle with the vapour leaving Castiel's own lips. Sharing breaths felt almost more intimate than their kiss had, Castiel mused.

"It's funny," Dean breathed, "I never understood what attracted humans to kissing before, but now I understand. It's..."

"Yes," Castiel murmured in agreement. "Me too." Overcoming his nervousness, Castiel grabbed a fistful of Dean's dripping hair and hungrily sealed his mouth against his.

Dean responded with equal fervour, nails raking down Castiel's back, leaving marks even through his T-shirt. Castiel gasped as Dean bit his lip, too gently for it too really hurt, but firmly enough that it sent a spike of desire through Castiel's body. He gripped onto Dean as tightly as he possibly could, opening his mouth to Dean's curious tongue and wishing so hard that time could just freeze in this moment and leave him with this feeling of elation forever.

Dean seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as when he abandoned Castiel's lips in favour of the tender spot just below his ear, he panted, "_Cas_, I could just stay like this for the rest of time."

And as Castiel rubbed rhythmic circles into Dean's back to keep himself grounded, he couldn't agree more.

* * *

"Hey, Cas, remember what today is?" Dean said, towelling his hair dry from his morning shower and grinning at Castiel, who was reclined on the bed, tapping dutifully upon his upgraded laptop.

"Of course," Castiel replied simply. "How could I ever forget?"

Dean grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to Castiel's lips which the brunet gladly reciprocated. "I still can't decide whether we should celebrate the day we first met or the day we first bonded."

Castiel flushed at the unintentional double-entendre. Dean still hadn't quite mastered the nuances of modern language. "How about both?" he said with a small smile, ruffling Dean's still-damp hair.

Dean laughed. "Greedy," he jibed, turning to find a clean shirt for his work day.

Castiel admired Dean's back appreciatively. The scars were still there; originally they had been unsure whether they would fade or not, taking into account the angelic source of the wounds. However, they were still there, and Castiel no longer felt any emotion other than fondness when he looked at them. Though it was unfortunate that it had to have been so painful for him, Dean's falling was what had brought them together, and now Castiel regarded the scars as a symbol of their bond.

Returning his gaze to the laptop screen, Castiel read over the document he was editing, mind decidedly elsewhere. He had decided to write the book approximately a month after Dean's initial appearance, and had asked the manager at the library to proof-read it for him, as she had once been an editor for a large publishing firm. She had gladly agreed and complemented him on it highly, telling him she would take it to her old place of work and demand they have a look at it.

"It's really a remarkable piece of fiction," she had said, sounding mildly surprised. Castiel would have found it insulting, but he realised he hardly came across as a person who enjoyed the written word in any form.

"The base idea is what makes it so charming. The falling of an angel for a love that was doomed to die, in order to find the love that he was truly meant to have," she had continued. "It almost seems believable, the way you've relayed the story."

Castiel had just smiled inwardly.

His little joke.

Bringing himself back to the present, Castiel glanced over at Dean once more, before returning to make the last finishing touches to his novel.

He looked at it in satisfaction. It was beautiful.

* * *

**A/N: While writing this, I initially thought it moved way too fast, but then I added some bits and it got a bit better. I'm still not 100% sure, but this is normal for me, I keep on comparing myself to J K Rowling and Shakespeare or whoever. Though I guess my time-frame can't get much more improbable than Romeo and Juliet... **

**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my first Destiel as much as I did!**

**~tii-chan17**


End file.
